Lifelines
by Fly Raven. Fly
Summary: She didn't even really know why she had the number to begin with. Trigger warnings.


**I have no clue where this came from. No, I do actually. All I have to say is that there is always someone willing to listen.**

**Warning: Possible triggers. Read ahead but be warned.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any characters mentioned.**

She didn't even know why she had the number to begin with, really. She didn't even know why she was looking at the goddamn site to begin with. Maybe it was because Kurt had finally given in and left. Maybe it was because his life was threatened. Maybe it was because she didn't want to be who she was. Maybe it was because she was tired.

God, she was tired.

So she put the number into her phone. Not under something anyone could be suspicious about, of course. And she updated the security to lock everything, but still. She had it to begin with.

The first time she called, was one of the days she was feeling tired. So tired. And dirty. She lay on her bed staring at the ceiling for hours, ignoring all the calls and text messages from Brittany (because, really, who else would call her because they just wanted to talk? Or because they were worried?) and her stomach tore itself up from the inside. She couldn't cry because she was just too fucking exhausted. She lacked the energy to cry, and lacked the ability to care.

Was just so tired. Tired of hurting. Tired of fighting. Tired of being scared. (When was she going to stop being so damn scared?) Tired of surviving. (Because if she owned up to it—which of course, she wouldn't ever do because she's a _coward_—what she was doing wasn't living.)

Tired of _being. _

And she remembered the number secretly and wonderingly placed in her phone. And why the fuck not? What's there to lose, right.

So with a heavy hand she picked up her cell—63 missed calls, 70 new messages—and selected the number.

When the person on the other side picked up she didn't do anything. That first time she called she laid there, listening, breathing for how long she didn't know. Then she whispered—so quietly she wasn't even sure if she had said it or imagined saying it—_thank you_ and hung up.

After a while she sat up off her bed—still aching and feeling every movement in her so-tired bones—and picked up her cell to return Brittany's call.

*.*

The second time she picked up her phone, she was sobbing. Gasping and aching and breathing harshly and just fuck it all, _make it stop_, she called that damn number. She was sitting in the back of her car, huddled into the door, feeling sweaty and filthy and still feeling another guy on her—_in her_—and still feeling wrong. Wasn't that supposed to help? Wasn't that supposed to fix her? She did it, again, wasn't she supposed to be _right_?

She didn't feel right.

And she started crying—for the first time in years, because she's not like that. She doesn't cry. God fucking _damn it _she doesn't cry—and it just wouldn't stop. She couldn't stop, and her nose was running and her chest hurt and her head hurt and _why_? Why did she feel like this?

The second time she didn't say anything either. She sat there, gasping and sobbing and hurting while the voice on the other end spoke calmly, rationally and she wanted to scream (there is nothing rational about this. Help me. God, please. I can't do this anymore) but instead she stayed silent.

She stayed on the phone until the first streams of light came through the window. She wasn't sobbing anymore. She was still breathing raggedly, swallowing harshly and hiccupping occasionally, but damn it she wasn't crying anymore. She wouldn't cry anymore.

And the voice was still talking. Only, soothing.

When was the last time she had been soothed by anyone besides Britt?

She couldn't say anything this time. Instead she hung up and let her phone fall from her limp fingers onto the floorboard of her back seat, turned her face into the upholstery and closed her eyes. She was tired.

So she slept.

*.*

She was angry. Fucking assholes, they had no fucking _right. _Who the hell did they think they were? What right, what fucking _right _did they have to judge anyone? They were overweight, middle aged men with no lives, no futures, losers who would always be stuck in this town with barely two brain cells to rub between the lot of them. They were nothing.

God fucking damn it; they had no right to tell her _she was nothing_.

And maybe they weren't talking about her directly ("fucking faggots. Jesus Christ, the world's being overrun by 'em. Disgusting, can you believe it? Actually thinking about legalizing those pieces of garbage.") maybe they weren't even talking _to _her. But that was her, damn it. That was her and that was Brittany and that was Kurt and that was Kurt's Blaine and that was all the kids in this fucking town who couldn't be who they were, who they _were_.

That was her.

It wasn't fucking fair.

So she called—again. And she felt better this time, more like _herself _because maybe she was tired, and maybe she was sad, and maybe she was aching, but damn it she was _pissed off _too, and if that wasn't her she didn't know what was.

She ranted and yelled and she's pretty sure she started screaming for a while too, but she couldn't be sure. All she knew is that if she didn't—just _didn't_—then she'd do something that would make Brittany cry.

She would never make Brittany cry.

Maybe she was on the phone for a few minutes. Maybe it was an hour. But by the time she finished she was panting and pushing back tears—what the fuck was wrong with her?—and feeling confused and slightly dazed.

The voice on the other end soothed. She still felt confused. But she nodded slightly, even though they couldn't see it. She nodded and listened—listened. She had never done that before—and sat down on her bed and lowered her head.

She heard then all downstairs still, yelling and hollering over the football game on TV and drinking. She vaguely wondered if they had heard her—but she doubted it. If they had her father would be up in her room by now, showing her what's what and how not to embarrass him. She tuned back in to the voice on the other side, still calm, still soothing, still there.

Feeling as if she'd said enough to last a lifetime, she simply nodded again and hung up. She straightened her shoulders and went back downstairs, hiding inside herself but feeling the tiniest bit more stable.

They couldn't touch her. They were nothing.

*.*

The fourth time was the one that turned everything to shit. The fourth time was the time her father found her holding and kissing Brittany. The fourth time was after he calmly exited the room, leaving her tense and Brittany oblivious. The fourth time was after Brittany left, humming. The fourth time was after her mother drank herself to sleep. The fourth time was after her father found her before she could sneak out. It was after he pulled her hair as she was trying to climb out the window. It was the time he threw her onto the floor and hit her and hit her and hit her. It was after he spat in her face, sneered and taunted while she lay there, hurting and gasping. It was the time he got down next to her, in her face and she winced back despite herself, his breath—whiskey and candy—on her skin, calmly telling her that if he ever found out that she had done anything so disgusting again, he'd show her what a woman was meant to be. And then, he'd find her little girlfriend—oh god, Britt's, please Dad, no—and shows her too. It was after he left her there among the broken furniture, and she finally started to cry because everything _hurt _but it wasn't just physical, it was everywhere and everything and she wished he had just killed her instead.

She called and she let it ring and she whimpered into the phone and she let herself black out.

*.*

She made Brittany cry.

She had never hated anyone more than she hated herself.

She tried to distance herself. She pushed Britt away. She ignored everyone in Glee. She quit the Cheerios. She skipped as much as she could. She had shaken everyone off, but Britt. And, oddly, Kurt, it seemed.

But she could handle Kurt. What she couldn't handle was Brittany. She stood there, and tore her down. She tore her down while on the inside she was sobbing and screaming and shaking and scared, because what if he hurt Britt? She told her that Brittany was nothing. That she had meant nothing. That she was stupid and pathetic and naïve and nothing, nothing, nothing, and that what she felt was wrong. She told Brittany she didn't feel the same because it was disgusting.

Brittany asked her why she was lying.

God, and she knew. She always knew. So she put on a sneer and bitch-face that would make Hummel proud, and lied to her. And made Brittany believe. And made Brittany cry. Fuck.

Brittany left. Just like she wanted. She went to find anyone—any _guy _that would put his hands on her—so she could hurt Brittany more. She had to hurt her, she had to hurt her to keep her safe, because they would never be safe and she should've seen the evidence in Kurt.

It didn't work.

It never worked.

And out of everyone, _Azimo _found out. He knew and she didn't know how, because how could he? He was stupid and how _did _he? And he tried to show her how wrong it was, panting in her face and this wasn't how she wanted it, but they were all right. It was wrong, she was wrong, what she felt was wrong and disgusting and she deserved it.

She went home with bruises on her hips and thighs and wrists but she didn't feel anything. She wasn't tired anymore. She wasn't anything, because she would always be nothing, wouldn't she?

No one was home, which was too bad. She could've shown her dad that she had listened. He would've seen and he would've known. But he wasn't. And that was okay, too.

This time she sat on the bathroom floor. The pill bottle that contained the capsules her mom had for her depression currently laid empty on the floor next to her, the orange bottle mocking her in the bright light and tile. What the hell was Imipramine for anyway? But whatever, it worked and she felt tired now, but not the tired like she felt constantly. This was more like finally going to sleep after a long, long day.

But not yet, no not yet, 'cause she had read—read somewhere hadn't she? That the pills could be pumped out, couldn't they? That's why—that's why her wrists. Yeah. 'Cause it'd be difficult to fix both or either, wouldn't they? And she didn't cut across, no. She cut down the vein, wasn't that right? She couldn't do anything right. Maybe that wasn't right either, but whatever worked, right?

Her eyes were fuzzy and she felt kinda cold, but she saw her phone lying next to the empty bottle and thought of the other times she had called. She felt kinda bad. The people were there so this wouldn't happen, but it happened anyway, didn't it? She felt bad, like maybe they'd think they didn't do enough, but that wasn't right. So she picked up her phone and pressed the speed dial button—though her fingers felt like cotton and couldn't work right.

It rang once, but it kinda felt like forever 'cause she had to tell them—tell the voice (always calm) that it wasn't their fault, that they did okay, it was her fault. So they did everything, but she did nothing and she had to tell them.

"Hello, this is the Trevor Project."

Her tongue felt heavy and her eyes wanted to close but she needed—she needed. "Tired, s'tired…" That wasn't what she needed to say, but she needed to tell them!

"Hello? You're tired?"

She made a noise in the back of her throat, and felt her eyes roll. "Not—not what I…needed to say… Fault. Mine. Mine, all mine."

The voice sounded different now—it wasn't so calm anymore, but why wasn't it? It should feel better now. She felt like she was falling. Oh. No, that was just her phone. It made a loud noise, but no not really. She wanted to sleep now. Just sleep. She was tired of being tired.

"—are you? Where are—are—bleeding?"

She shut her eyes.

*.*

Fuck, everything hurt.

She drew in a sharp breath and even that seemed to split her head open. She heard something, a rustling and fuck that was _loud. _She tried to open her eyes, tried to see what was happening but heard voices—panicked. God, why couldn't she open her eyes?

There was a finger in her throat and she tried to push away, get away but she couldn't move. She felt the bile rise in her throat and nothing would stop it, and fucking hell it _hurt_.

She wanted to say something, she wanted to move, she wanted to _see_ but instead she felt cloth tightly wrapped around her forearms and a cold and shaking hand on her forehead and went back under,

*.*

The next time she opened her eyes, it was too bright.

What the fuck. God damn it, she _hated _hospitals. What was she doing here?

She tried to sit up but her head felt like it was going to split open—worse than any hangover she had ever had. Her stomach churned warningly and she had to just sit for a moment to breathe normally.

She blinked open her eyes—heavy and gritty—to look around the room. It wasn't as bright as it had felt. The blinds were closed over every window and even the curtain was wrapped around the bed. It was actually dark in here. She turned her head and on either said of the bed she was in there was a chair. And there was a person in each chair, sleeping.

She blinked hard, wondering why the hell she couldn't get her bearings, and looked at her wrists, then blinked again in bafflement.

They were wrapped tighter than a mummy and ached like a bitch. Where they weren't wrapped there was an IV and one on the top of her hand. She was hooked to all sorts of different machines like those weird sci-fi movies Brittany liked so—

Brittany. She felt her breath hitch in her sore—so sore—throat. That was one person next to her bed. Her long blonde hair was splayed next to her hip on the bed, one of her hands practically in it. Her face was pale and tired, dry tear tracks underneath her closed eyelids and her breathing even. She felt her heart swell protectively, wondering who made her Britt cry and vowing to kick there ass sideways.

She turned her attention to the other chair—and to her shock saw Kurt Hummel.

He was awake, and staring at her with tired, and haunted eyes. He had never looked like that before. Not even when his life was being threatened or his father was in the hospital.

They gazed at each other silently, and without a word he reached over to the table next to the hospital bed and lifted a cup and straw to her lips. She almost whimpered when she felt the cool liquid run down her throat, drinking greedily.

"Careful," he whispered quietly, and she winced slightly because wow, why did that sound so loud? "Don't drink so quickly, you'll make yourself sick."

And because she was starting to feel nauseous she slowed down some, and soon enough all the water was gone form the cup. Kurt put it back by the table and leaned forward to grasp the hand nearest to him in his own, careful of the bandaging and IV. It felt weird, but nicer than she'd ever expected. No one besides Brittany had ever touched her so tenderly and for a reason other than to get with her. But he was just holding her hand.

She saw his jaw clench tightly, and heard the shaky breath he inhaled. He let it out on a choked but quiet, "God, Santana—"

She still felt confused when he seemed to be trying not to cry—another thing she had never seen him do except when his Dad was in the hospital. But he had almost died. She didn't know why he was crying now. Why was he crying?

She parted her dry lips and spoke even though her throat still felt like she swallowed gravel. "Why—why are you…crying?" and hell if that didn't wear her out. What the hell happened?

Kurt glanced up, and his eyes were filled. "What happened? Santana—you almost died." He was still whispering—thank god—but it didn't lessen his vehemence any. "I saw Britt, she was crying. I asked her what was wrong and she told me what you had said. You would never say that to Brittany. After I calmed her down I went around the school looking for you, but I couldn't find you anywhere. I heard Azimo in the locker room—gloating to some of the hockey players and I just—knew something was wrong. I remembered where you lived from when Britt and I went to pick you up and—the door was open. No one was home, and the door was open so I went in, and heard someone—it was on your phone, you were still on a call with someone but you—you. God."

And she remembered now. It made more sense now, and she swallowed thickly, but she didn't know if it was because she was parched or if it was from the way his hands were shaking and the tightness in her throat.

"You were—you were talking to the Trevor lifeline. I saw the pill bottle and your wrists—I made you throw up then wrapped towels around you, like the voice on the other end said to do. I didn't know—fuck Santana. Fuck." He pursed his lips and clenched his eyes shut tightly. She squeezed the hand she was holding as tightly as she could. He looked up at her and she mouthed 'I'm sorry'.

He shook his head, looking bewildered and devastated. "The doctors found bruises. You have a hairline fracture in your wrist. It wasn't from recently. Santana—I don't understand. Brittany—I just. I don't."

He broke off again, and again, and again. Blaine came in at one point, looking worried and hurting as he held Kurt and telling her that her things had been moved to Kurt's house. Kurt could tell from her expression that she was going to argue even with her throat and head killing her and he told her in no uncertain terms to just 'shut the fuck up, it's going to happen'. The doctor—a harried but friendly woman—came in and switched the IV and checked on her bandages.

Britt woke up. When she did she stared at her, Britt just stared at her, and her eyes were sad and sharp. All she said was 'I understand' and Santana cried.

Kurt held one hand, Britt held the other, and she hurt and she was tired and it wasn't all better but she felt like she did every time she had gotten off the phone. She felt a fraction clearer, a bit calmer, and more centered.

Kurt found her phone and put it in her hand, but at the moment she had no desire to call anyone.


End file.
